


Hermione at the Wedding

by Gilly_sirlCAN



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Erotica, F/M, Het, Light Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilly_sirlCAN/pseuds/Gilly_sirlCAN
Summary: Hoping to build bridges with respectable wizarding society, Draco invites Hermione to his wedding. Despite her doubts, she accepts. Draco’s father Lucius, listless and depressed, is captivated by her.





	1. Hermione at the Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally submitted to the Lucius Big Bang 2011, it was beta'ed by Reynardo and cheered on by Angel Spriggs.

Hermione found someone already sitting in her cramped office on that Monday morning. Even more surprising was who it was. 

“Who let you in, Malfoy?” 

The tone she used reminded her of the old days, but that was already so long ago, and Draco Malfoy had paid dearly for his sins. 

The man sitting in her guest chair jumped slightly at her exclamation. He got up quickly, as if stung. He had the same face Hermione knew, of course, but something was undeniably changed. There was dignity in his countenance, but no pride, no scorn, no arrogance. 

“I asked a caretaker. I was here early.” 

Hermione looked at him. His whole being exuded resignation, sadness even. She raised her eyebrows, encouraging him to justify his presence.

“I needed to ask you something,” he said, breaking eye contact for a brief moment. 

“Will it be long? I have to meet someone at nine, » she answered, a bit more curtly than she would have wished to. 

Draco bit his lower lip and sighed. He visibly had trouble finding his words. 

“I … want to invite you to my wedding.”

The surprise on Hermione’s face must have looked comical, but Draco did not as much as smile. She plopped herself down on her chair and looked at him as if he had just proposed a house-elves protection act. 

“Excuse me? You want me to come to your wedding? Are you out of your mind?” 

The slightest grin graced his face, but only for a second. He cleared his throat and went on.

“I’m trying to build bridges. And, of all the people who I am supposed to build bridges with, you’re the one I can stand.”

Things were going from odd to baffling. Her, the Mudblood, Granger the Know-it-all who beat him at every subject, who was the recipient of his first attempts at persecution, he could… stand her? 

Hermione shook her head. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I find that hard to swallow.” 

His discreet smile put on another show. He would visibly have to explain himself further.

“Look, I don’t think it would be long before Potter would whip his wand out at me for just showing up at his door, and your boyfriend, well…” 

“Ex-boyfriend,” she clarified. “And you think I have no ill feelings towards you?”

She was incredulous but also curious. Yes, she was probably the subtlest member of the Golden Trio. Yet just like Harry, Ron, and so many other students, Hermione had been a victim of Draco’s earliest attempts at general hatefulness. That was even before she had been tortured in his home, under his eyes. 

He hung his head, and then raised it again, gathering courage.

“Of course. You have every right to hate me. But hear me out. Please.”

She sat back on her chair and crossed her arms. 

“Go on,” she said.

“I know I was atrocious to you when we were kids. I know what my father did, and what I did. I know what you suffered.”

He stopped, letting his words sink in. As incredible as it was, he looked absolutely sincere, which was saying a lot given Hermione had acquired a solid experience in detecting bollocks. 

“But now that life has gone on, I feel that I should try and make amends somehow. Or at least show civility and good will.” 

He swallowed hard, but considered her stunned silence an encouragement to continue.

“I never really hated you, you know. I was encouraged to, and acted as if I did. But I thought about it long and hard, and I realized I never did. I was jealous, certainly, of your brains and of the fact that you had actual friends. But I never wanted you… dead.”

When he finished his sentence, his shoulders fell and he exhaled loudly. He looked away. Hermione observed him, brows knitted. It must have cost him dearly to learn what he just admitted, and it showed a courage she would never have credited him with. 

“I see,” was all she could say for a moment. After a good while, she ventured to add “Do you expect us to become… friends?” 

He shook his head and scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not that dense. I just wish we could be civil. I also know that any kind of cordial relations we have will make me look good; I would understand perfectly if you thought that’s my only reason for asking.” 

He spoke with such disconcerting matter-of-factness. If he had wished only to appear to be in Hermione Granger’s good graces, he wouldn’t have spilled his guts he just had. He could have made a large donation to her favorite charity and blackmailed her into shaking hands with him in public. 

“In a very strange way, this is flattering,” Hermione started, cautious, “but I understand you; I understand what you are trying to do. And, Merlin help me, I’m… I’m not saying no. Let me think about it. I’ll owl you an answer.”

Draco gave a short nod and got up to leave. 

“Thank you. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it,” he promised. 

He held out a hand. Hermione took it and met with a firm handshake. 

***

Hermione had trouble finding sleep that night. She could not find a satisfactory explanation for what Draco Malfoy had asked her. If there hadn’t been the slight inconvenience of the war, it would have been reasonable to accept his apologies. She supposed bullies and their victims could, and did, reconcile sometimes. Furthermore, she had never suffered his taunts passively. He had had a taste of her right fist, among other things. 

However, he had been on Voldemort’s side. He had been going to kill Dumbledore (although, in hindsight, she doubted he would have). How could she forget the atrocious names he called her--not just childish nonsense but hateful racial slurs? To be fair, she had to keep in mind Draco had his beliefs dictated to him while he was still a child, growing into them before he truly understood. How wise can a child, or even a teenager, be? 

She rarely listened to her intuition, being more at ease with cold facts, but this time it was telling her to accept the proffered hand. Draco had seemed so humbled and so absolutely sincere…. She could take a chance on that much.

After mulling it over for almost a week, she sent an owl to Malfoy Manor saying she would be pleased to attend the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding. She would not be bringing a partner. 

She and Ron had parted ways a few months previous in less-than-ideal but mutually understood circumstances. She did not like the pressures he and his family put on her to settle down and become a good wife. How could they even conceive she would be happy changing nappies and cooking meals? She had nothing against motherhood; she even wanted to have a child or two, someday, but not at the expense of a stimulating career.

They realized they had been working under a misunderstanding, namely that they wanted the same things in life. Now it had been reported that Ron was seen with Parvati Patil; however, when they were in contact Ron never brought up the subject. Nor did she. She wished she would have had someone to bring to the wedding, but doubted anyone she could ask would accept, given it was Draco friggin’ Malfoy ! 

Hermione suspected a wedding at the Malfoys’ would not be a casual affair, so she had procured an appropriately chic dress. It was a “Hot Pink Crystal Pleated Chiffon Halter Gown” (at least, that was what the parchment attached to it said) and could be glamoured longer for the evening. It was ravishing, to tell the truth, and Hermione was a little sad to think it took such an unlikely occasion to wear the prettiest dress she had ever possessed. 

Taking her gold-embossed invitation card, her purse and a shawl, she put the gilded dove portkey that was provided with the invitation against her palm. She arrived in the middle of a long alley leading to a grand Elizabethan building. She had been there before, of course, but she had not been in a state of mind to admire the grandeur of the premises, nor had it been showing its best face that day. On either side of the alley were rose bushes in full bloom, manifestly enchanted to give off the most agreeable fragrance. 

All around Hermione were other guests, some of which she recognized, but most of which she did not. To her relief, she saw the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, with his new wife, Andromeda (née Black), who was after all the groom’s aunt. When the couple spied Hermione walking up, they both beamed at her. 

“How gracious it is of you to be here, Miss Granger,” intoned the Minister in his warm voice. “We did not expect any less.” 

“You mean you knew Draco would ask me?” 

Mrs. Shacklebolt nodded.

“My nephew consulted me on this. I was surprised at first, but found the intention a courageous one so I encouraged Draco to follow through. I’m sure he’s relieved you’re coming.”

Their reassurances alleviated some of Hermione’s doubts. She joined the Minister and his wife in walking up to the manor. She pursed her lips at the sight of house-elves directing the guests to the side and into a walled garden where the ceremony was to take place. Some things take a little longer, she thought.

She sat down at her designated place, incidentally next to the Shacklebolts. When she was settled, she looked up at the ceremonial altar and started at the sight of the groom’s father. Lucius Malfoy was not smiling. He was not making polite conversation with the priestess. He stood there, facing the crowd, his hands behind his back. There was vagueness in his eyes as if he looked but did not see, and despite herself, Hermione found the sight quite sad. Surely he was the same unctuous schemer he always had been? Certainly he was plotting a way to clean his name with the least possible amount of work? 

“Draco says his father is like a ghost,” whispered Andromeda to Hermione. “He’s very worried about him. I’m afraid I can’t share his concern.”

Although it sounded a bit cold, Hermione could only concede that Lucius Malfoy deserved all the distrust and scorn coming his way. She had no reason to think otherwise. But he did look quite despondent. While Mr. and Mrs. Shacklebolt next to her were chattering quietly about Malfoy senior, the man himself walked up to their row and bowed deeply. 

“Minister Shacklebolt, Andromeda, I’m honored you could come. Draco will be very satisfied. Have a pleasant day”.

His eyes were on Hermione for a moment, but he did not seem to realize who she was. He bowed courteously to her and walked back to the front. He had greeted the Minister with enough pleasantness in his voice, but mechanically. Hermione had expected Mr. Malfoy to be obsequious, but somehow it was not the case that day. She shook her head and concentrated on the groom, who had just joined his father at the front of the assembly. 

Solemn music sounded, and the bride appeared at the back of the gathering, preceded by elegant people who must be her parents. The mother of the bride was smiling radiantly at Lucius Malfoy, but it did not register on the wizard’s face, which was frozen in a dignified but unsmiling expression.

The wedding ceremony very much resembled a Muggle one, but of course actual magic was involved. A spell bound the bride and groom, accompanied by goodwill oaths made by their parents. There was also the drinking of a traditional love potion by the newlywed couple which, Hermione had gathered, ensured a successful wedding night…. 

After the ceremony, the guests were invited inside the manor while the bride retired to change into supper attire. Deciding it would be in bad taste to monopolize the Minister and Mrs. Shacklebolt, Hermione wandered around, admiring the house and chatting to the few guests she knew (and could dare speak to). It was not nearly as dark and forbidding as she had imagined, or for that matter as she remembered. She surmised the Malfoys must have made extensive repairs and modifications after the war. They have bad memories to avoid like the rest of us.

Soon a bell pealed to announce the supper. Once again she was placed near the Shacklebolts, for which she was quite grateful; the idea of having to make conversation with Gregory Goyle or Pansy Parkinson gave her cold sweats. She had seen neither among the wedding party, however. Every course was more delicious than the preceding one. Although Hermione was not exactly a bon vivant, she knew exceptional food when she tasted it.

The sumptuous feast ended and the guests were invited back into the wide entrance hall or out into the gardens while the banquet hall was cleaned (by house elves, no doubt) to make way for the ball. Such a process did not take long in the wizarding world of course, and soon everybody was gathering around the glittering room, waiting for the bride to reappear after another change of dress. 

***

It was only when he was back at the altar that Lucius realized who she was. Hermione Granger. War heroine. Mudblood. The word that sprang to his mind made him grimace: he never used it anymore, but somehow the sight of the young witch brought it back. 

Not that her appearance deserved such an epithet: Lucius found her ravishing, and was annoyed by it. 

After his part in the wedding ceremony had been played, he found himself at leisure to observe Hermione further, always from afar. He saw her chat amicably with the Shacklebolts, and enduring with dignity and contained annoyance the gushing homage Horace Slughorn insisted on paying her in front of a pack of unrepentant Purebloods. It amused Lucius immensely.

During the banquet, Lucius found himself monopolized by guests and the meal itself, which he barely touched (as was his habit) and could not look at her as often as he wished. But now the guests were crowding the great hall again for the ball, and he maneuvered to find a quiet corner to observe her again. 

She looked apprehensive, which made him sneer inwardly, despite himself. Obviously, Miss Granger was not used to such society. Merlin knew who her… Muggle parents were, and it was doubtful they moved in such circles. However, she had a gracefulness which was not devoid of distinction. She was by no means well-bred, but she did not look out of place either. 

Oh, she had been there before. Lucius felt nauseated at the recollection. The young girl she had been then had tried so valiantly to resist Bellatrix’s cruel assaults, although she was obviously no match, and her heart-rending cries were very vivid in his memory. Along with so many others….

Lucius watched, transfixed, as she moved around the room, no doubt trying to find a familiar face. She was of average height, and slender, but her figure was undeniably feminine. Her breasts were just small, or big, enough (when appraising a lady’s attributes, Lucius was always reminded of his mother’s decree that a woman’s breasts should fit into a champagne glass), and her rump looked rounded and firm. Thinking of his mother again, he noticed her ankles were small. Lucius was shaken out of such thoughts by her laughter, and looked back up at her face. Her eyes had particular warmth which in his experience indicated a passionate nature. 

An image of Hermione, sprawled on his bed, rosy cheeked, dishevelled and partly undressed sprang to his mind and caused a distressing tightness in his trousers. Disgusted with himself, he tore his eyes from her and wandered out on the terrace.

***

Hermione felt quite weary and did not look forward to an evening of having to decline (or accept) dancing invitations from charitable souls. She liked dancing well enough, but being without a companion, it did not hold much charm. Not that Ron had been a keen dancer, either. She strolled around smiling politely to people she did not know. 

She came to French doors opening on a balcony overlooking the gardens. She thought a bit of fresh air might help dispel her weariness. Gathering her shawl around her shoulders, she leaned forward on the balustrade and breathed in the cool air. As it was to be expected on such a grand estate, the gardens below were beautiful. Hermione sighed and tried to etch the vision in her memory, certain that she would not have the opportunity to enjoy such luxurious surroundings very often. 

Slowly turning her head to further survey the landscape, she saw a form out the corner of her eye. Turning directly to it, she realized it was Lucius Malfoy. She let out a gasp but he did not seem to hear her. He just stood there, looking into the distance. On further observation Hermione realized his countenance was much like his son’s: dignified but aloof, and undeniably sad. She knew his wife, Mrs. Shacklebolt’s sister, had died of unnamed causes not very long after Voldemort’s defeat. 

Hermione cleared her throat; Mr. Malfoy was startled out of his thoughts. He turned to face her and peered at her for a moment. To Hermione’s amazement, he bowed deeply and then moved to walk back into the ballroom. 

“Mr. Malfoy!” she exclaimed without thinking. “Don’t go.” 

He stopped, but did not turn around right away. Hermione raised an eyebrow, suddenly realizing he might not have changed after all and could be thinking of a cruel putdown.

However, when he did turn around, the same cheerless expression was on his face. She noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the deep lines around his mouth and creasing forehead. She also realized that despite everything he was quite an attractive man. 

“Miss Granger. My son had told me you had accepted his invitation. It pleased him very much,” Lucius said, barely audible over the din of the reception inside. 

He walked towards her. She gathered herself up.

“The reasons he gave me for the invitation were good enough, and I thought he was sincere,” she said, absurdly feeling the need to justify herself.

“I can assure you he is,” Mr. Malfoy replied, looking away at the gardens below. He looked back at her, his pale eyes causing a chill to run up her spine. “I had hoped we would not meet.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up again, “Excuse me?” 

Mr. Malfoy hung his head and closed his eyes in regret. 

“You misunderstand me. I had hoped you would not have the misfortune of meeting me.”

“Oh,” she said, unconvinced.

Hermione was skeptical, but found it highly improbable that the Lucius Malfoy she had known would have said anything so self-deprecating. 

“I… I have aged since we last… met, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve had time to put some things into perspective.”

Lucius felt like smiling at her wisdom, but it never reached his face. 

“Then let me…”

Before she could react, he had taken her hand and kissed it gently. Then he bowed and walked away, leaving a confused Hermione on the torch-lit terrace.


	2. Hermione at the Mask

Hermione did not remember much about how she left the wedding reception. After the short encounter with Lucius Malfoy, she walked around the ballroom distractedly then felt tired and decided to go home. 

Indeed, what Mr. Malfoy had hinted at was somewhat disconcerting. He looked truly affected by the aftermath of the War, but she had not expected him to feel ashamed towards her. He had cause to be, of course. But she was not the worst off of all his victims; at least she did not think so. Although he had been present in the room when she had been so viciously tortured by his sister-in-law, Hermione could not accuse him of directly hurting her. In any case, it was later established that at that point he was little more than a prisoner in his own home; deprived of his wand and dignity, he had no more control in Malfoy Manor than she herself had. Nonetheless, what he had been, and done, could not be erased, but it seemed he was now conscious of all the wrong he had done, and it offered hope that he at least possessed a soul.

She recalled when they had first met so long ago at Flourish and Blotts. He had looked down on her, certainly, but he had mainly singled her out for outsmarting his son in class. 

Then he had indirectly insulted her at the Quidditch World Cup; she remembered how she had felt oddly ashamed. Her blood status had never bothered her much after Draco’s hurtful comments; her friends’ support had comforted her, reaffirming the belief that it did not matter. But coming from an adult, who was supposed to know what he was doing, it was truly upsetting.

For the rest of the war, she had only had passing glances at him, including when she had been brought to the Manor by the Snatchers. It dawned on her that whenever they had met, they had been in a blur of warring wizards and thrown curses, caught behind their respective “leaders”. Both of them somewhat instrumental in the latter two’s duel, but at opposing ends of the moral compass. Which was, Hermione was beginning to realize, closer to a circle than a straight line.

More and more, she caught herself thinking of Lucius Malfoy. 

***

After they came back from their honeymoon in Egypt, Draco and Astoria settled at Malfoy Manor. The house had been restored to its original opulence, with modern comforts added for the young couple, and major changes being brought to the rooms Voldemort had used. 

Draco was taken with nausea whenever he recalled those times when Tom Riddle ruled over their house. But lately he was mainly worried about his father, who barely spoke and spent long days roaming the grounds. The evenings found Lucius in his study, staring into the distance, or at the bottom of a Firewhiskey bottle. 

One morning in October, Draco and Astoria were sitting at breakfast, discussing the masked ball they intended to host for Hallowe’en when Lucius walked in and sat with them. Both looked at him with solicitous curiosity.

“Are you well today, Father?” ventured Astoria. 

Mr. Malfoy turned to his daughter-in-law, smiled very slightly and answered, in his (now usual) quiet tone, “I am well thank you, dear Astoria.”

He turned to his son, as if expecting him to inquire about his mood too. Draco just returned the faint smile and went back to eating his scrambled eggs. They continued to eat in silence as Lucius fidgeted with the food that had just appeared in front of him. Gathering courage, Astoria started to talk about their plans again. 

“Should we invite the Minister? Do you think he’ll come?” she asked her husband after quickly glancing at her father-in-law. 

“I have a feeling Minister Shacklebolt will be invited to a lot of Hallowe’en balls. I suspect we may not be high on his list,” said Draco with a hint of sarcasm. “But send an invitation anyway.” 

A quill by Astoria’s side busied itself, the scratching sound being the only thing breaking the silence. 

“Why did you invite the Granger girl to your wedding?”

The question startled the young couple. They had discussed the matter in his presence, at length, but it had obviously not registered. 

“I… Didn’t I ask for your opinion on it, Father? You had agreed, and Aunt Andromeda thought it was a good idea,” stammered Draco, alarmed. 

“You had,” replied his father calmly. “But I do not remember you telling me why.”

As her husband was at a loss for words, Astoria spoke gently: 

“We thought it would be beneficial to reach out to… former enemies, Father. And Draco admires Miss Granger very much.”

Lucius appeared bewildered, but not angry. 

“He does?” 

He made a pause, seemingly deep in thought.

“Will you invite her to the Hallowe’en ball?”

Draco and Astoria looked at each other. The young man winced, fearing his father’s stern temper might have returned. 

“Would it displease you, Father?” asked Astoria. 

“Of course, we haven’t sent any invitations yet,” added Draco, hoping his father would speak further and enlighten them as to his sudden interest in Hermione. 

“I… I give you all liberty as to whom you wish to invite, Astoria. Draco,” he said.   
Then he rose, having barely eaten, bowed to his son and daughter-in-law, and left... 

***

Very early on a Saturday morning Hermione received an owl. She frowned when she spied the Malfoy coat of arms on the envelope and opened it right away. An invitation to their Hallowe’en ball! They really were bent on winning her over… A handwritten note was included: We would be honored by your presence, Hermione, but would also understand if you did not wish to attend. With all my respect, Draco M.

It would need thinking over. Hermione thought it was only fair the Malfoys were trying to start again on a better foundation, but she was still puzzled as to why they had chosen her to help them do so. Then she realized the sole fact that she was willing to consider the invitation was proof she was the right person…. So, deciding her social life was rather paltry anyway, Hermione sent back an owl saying she would be pleased to attend the Malfoy Masque. 

***

To his son and daughter-in-law’s great chagrin, Lucius Malfoy spent most of his days either confined to his study or roaming the Manor’s grounds. At those latter times, he did not simply Apparate in random corners of the vast estate; he walked, or even ran, if the disheveled, dirty appearance he had when he came back at sundown was any indication. 

Draco feared his father was somehow punishing himself. They had not had a proper conversation since his mother’s death, nearly two years before, but Draco knew what he felt himself, and how his father acted when he was upset, and Lucius’ actions echoed those feelings these past couple of years. Draco had hoped Astoria’s kindness would help thaw his father’s reticence a little, but if it was the case, it was working very slowly. Only when Lucius brought Hermione Granger up that morning did he appear remotely involved. 

***

On an exceptionally warm early October morning, Lucius was standing in the foyer, pondering whether to start one of his strenuous walks or lock himself up in his study when the owl post came. The black owl dropped several envelopes on a marble table and flew back outside as swiftly as it had come in. 

Lucius looked at the mail and blinked. Slowly, he walked to the marble console and took the paper bundle. Quickly flipping through the envelopes, he saw Hermione’s name on one of them. He blinked then put the mail back where it had been dropped. 

***

Hermione made the final adjustments to her costume; she had decided to go as Eleanor of Aquitaine, a Muggle historical figure she admired. She had hired a period-accurate dress from a Muggle shop, but had found their accessories to want in authenticity. Madam Malkin helped her find a wizarding costumer where she borrowed a gilded and pearled circlet and an embroidered wimple. Hermione braided and darkened her hair so she wouldn’t be too recognizable. After all, as the invitation stipulated, the Masque at Malfoy Manor was “an occasion to make merry mischief while under the cover of carnival attire. Masks will be provided in the foyer”. 

After one last look in the mirror, she pressed the small golden pumpkin to her palm and Apparated to the same alley leading to the main building of the Malfoys’ estate. It was dusk, and given everyone was costumed, Hermione could not discern if she knew anybody. She walked slowly to the front doors, taking time to admire other guests’ costumes. One masked Musketeer made a lewd comment when she passed by, which she regally ignored. Walking through the open doors, she spied a house-elf, wearing a (clean) Roman toga, giving ornate masks to guests. Hermione chose a simple gold one with an off-white lace panel hiding the lower part of her face. 

“I’m so pleased you could come,” said a familiar voice to her left. Putting on her mask, she turned to Draco, who was dressed as a Napoleonic-era soldier. His blue eyes were smiling under his mask. 

“I hope I won’t live to regret it,” she said, smiling back at him.

“There will be no reason for you to, I promise,” he said, a bit earnestly. 

They shook hands and he was off again, being dragged away by a giggling Josephine. 

For a moment, Hermione wondered if she had stumbled upon an honest-to-Merlin carnival orgy. Indeed, she had not once thought about what passed for Hallowe’en revelry in those aristocratic circles. Maybe the ballroom would be full of semi-naked couples doing rude things. She chuckled at her decidedly prudish, yet devious imagination and took the staircase to the upper floor. 

Everybody in the hallway was fully dressed and behaved in a civilized way. The wildest thing going on the ballroom was excessive drinking, not that it wasn’t an edifying sight. 

Hermione took a champagne flute and observed the guests around her. She tried to distinguish familiar voices or miens, but it was really too difficult and she gave up. Try to have fun, that’s what you’re here for, she chided herself. A tall, elegant man in a black suit and top hat asked her to dance, and she gave her arm without a word. Not knowing how to behave like a mysterious stranger, she answered the man’s questions with nods and shakes of her head, which he seemed to find infinitely amusing. Mistaking her lack of responsiveness for subservience, the Top Hat Man waltzed them ever closer to a darker corner of the room, where he caught Hermione’s waist in a vice-like grip and tried to kiss her. She fiercely pushed him off with an indignant cry. To her relief, he did not renew his attack, eyed the wand she had whipped out and walked away muttering profanities about frigid bitches. 

“Are you alright, dear?” said an elderly Marie-Antoinette nearby.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, straightening her bodice and exchanging a commiserating smile with the lady. 

Hermione sighed and walked back to a more crowded area. Her attention was caught by a man looking intently at her from across the room. He was dressed as a Knight Templar and had an engraved silver mask. When he saw she was looking at him, he started walking towards her. Hermione felt growing unease at the man’s progress through the crowd, but it was definitely mixed with excitement. All of a sudden, she understood the appeal of Masques. 

When he finally stood before her, the knight bowed deeply. In the spirit of the occasion, she curtsied and took the man’s proffered hand. He steered them through the crowd; Hermione let him lead her by the hand to the center of the dance floor, where he bowed again. This time, she did not curtsy; she did not have time before he grabbed her by the waist and started to whirl them around the floor. 

She wanted very much to speak to him, to try and find out exactly who he was, but all the words caught in her throat when her eyes met his a little longer than they should. There was unquestionably lust there; Hermione suspected he had not so intently sought her to talk about the Quidditch season. But she also saw a kind of wonder. In her turn, her eyes softened and a sweet smile crept up her lips. Hermione relaxed in the man’s arms and let herself be wildly twirled around the floor. As she was starting to become a bit dizzy and the other couples becoming a colorful blur, the music faded to its end; he gently slowed down and stopped. The smile which had formed on her face turned into outright, wholehearted laughter. She felt so light. 

In a second, however, she became alarmed at the ease with which she so completely gave herself to the dance and for being so irresistibly attracted to this perfect stranger, who could very well not be a stranger at all. What if he was a co-worker at the Ministry? A dim Quidditch star? Percy Weasley? Every feature which could have helped her recognize him was concealed by the costume, the mask, the headdress. 

“Will you walk with me in the gardens?” he said so softly that she couldn’t place his voice either. 

The touch of his hand on her wrist was so gentle, and so invitingly warm that she decided she would see the adventure through, whoever he may be. She simply nodded her assent.


	3. Hermione at the Cottage

He took her arm under his and they walked among the autumn blooms. They still had not properly spoken. 

“It is really a beautiful place,” Hermione said hesitantly.

“It is.”

She bit her lower lip and searched for words to break the silence.

“Are you a friend of the hosts?” she tried again.

“You could say I am. I know the young master very well.”

“You mean Draco?” she asked. He just nodded. 

Hermione racked her brains; her mysterious knight was older than her, she was certain of that. It was in the way he moved, his silhouette which, though by no means heavy, was somewhat too thick to belong to a young man. He must be a friend of the Malfoys. And it was fair to assume that many friends of the Malfoys might not be hers. Feeling a sudden need to protect herself, she disentangled her arm from his.

“I’m sorry, I can’t… I need to know who you are,” she stammered, embarrassed. The charade was amusing, a good bit intoxicating, even, but given the Malfoys’ history there could be more than embarrassing apologies in store.

“I mean you no harm,” he said, a little louder than he had spoken until then. “You can be certain of that.”

Hermione frowned. “You know who I am.” she said, the realization making her feel stupid. 

He nodded slowly. Then he drew her to him, so close her breath caught. Waving his hand, he made her mask disappear. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest when he claimed it in a kiss and all her resolve abandoned her. At first, his lips gently pressed against hers; then she felt his tongue prying them open. She met it eagerly with hers, wild alarm bells ringing in her ears. She did not heed them; for once, it was delightful to enjoy the moment and not think of its ramifications. It was he who broke the kiss, however. She realized he had removed his mask too; of course, he had removed it to kiss her, but she had been too distracted to notice. 

She was not certain, at first. His hair was concealed by a fabric coif over a chain mail hood. But there were the pale blue eyes, the arched brow; the thin lips, reddened and moist. 

“You?” Hermione breathed. 

He did not recoil. He did not flinch. He was not sneering. She pushed him away, and he offered no resistance. Confused, Hermione stood there, searching his face. A minute ago, she was ready to do something she never thought she’d be capable of: giving in to lust and letting her senses lead her. But now… well, now, she was confused.

“How could you… you know who I am. You’ve known who I was all along?”

Lucius Malfoy remained silent for several seconds, his face a mask of impassivity; only his eyes betrayed his inner thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to already be in her arms, between her legs, far away from there, far away from everyone else. But he had no intention of taking her against her will.

“I want you,” he said simply, “I don’t care who you are.”

Hermione looked down, shook her head. She had been in stickier situations, but none where she had felt so utterly clueless. Knowing his identity suddenly made her angry: she still wanted him, but she could not, she simply could not! But he looked so absolutely, so painfully sincere. 

“How do I know I can trust you? How do I know this isn’t some sick game?”

His lips twitched. If anything, he looked even sadder.

“You don’t. You can’t.” he said. “You only have my word.”

His candor was disarming, and in itself, was proof enough. Hermione heaved a quick sigh and shook her head. 

“Did you…when did you… notice this? Just tonight?” 

She could not bring herself to put it so bluntly as to say “How long have you wanted me?” Lucius thought for a moment. 

“No. I observed you at the wedding, then we met, and you were so dignified towards me,” he said, looking deep, unwavering into her eyes. 

Hermione was at a loss. Every inch of her longed to give in to the man in front of her. A voice in her head told her to forget who he was. She felt no danger, suspected no ulterior motive. Why would Lucius Malfoy want to trap her? Oh, plenty of reasons, she thought. But she wanted so much to give in! 

She gave in to the irresistible urge to touch him again. She brought her hand up to his cheek and caressed it. He took the opportunity to draw her closer, and she felt herself be Disapparated away. 

3\. HERMIONE AT THE COTTAGE

They were standing in a bedroom. As he was trailing the skin of her neck with searing kisses, Hermione took in their surroundings; it did not look as if they were in the manor. The ambiance was too warm, the décor too romantic, cozy even. She found the will to enquire, 

“Where are we?” 

Stopping his sublime treatment of her neck, but rubbing her breasts through her dress, he answered, his voice hoarse, “A cottage on the grounds. Shhhh…” 

She was encased in his arms, her back to him. Although there were several layers of fabric between his skin and hers, or maybe because of that fact, Hermione ached for his touch. She tried to turn around, but he held her firmly in place. He had gone back to kissing her nape, and goose bumps were plaguing her. Her fingers helplessly scratched at the skin on his forearms. His left hand was stroking her chin as his right one weighed heavily on her hip, from time to time going back up to her breasts. It was so sensual, so languorous, she felt like they had been there for hours. But she did feel him hard against her behind, and she was sopping wet. 

“I will take your dress off now,” he hummed in her ear. All she could do was moan in reply. 

He deftly undid the cords lacing up her overdress, and she stepped out of it obediently. He slowly lifted up the hem of the flimsy chemise she wore underneath it. Hermione lifted her arms so he could take it off completely, feeling like a child being put to bed. But she was no child now that she stood naked, save for thigh-high stockings held up with ribbons. 

Almost roughly, he turned her around, and she could look at him again, at last, with wide eyes. He smiled, but only with his eyes, and kissed her hungrily. He had somehow gotten rid of his heavy outer garments and was now only wearing a tunic. Pressing her hard against him, he inched her closer to the bed; when she felt its edge against the back of her knees, she gave no resistance and let herself fall heavily onto the mattress. The coarse fabric of his shirt scratched her tender skin as he positioned himself over her, but she found it oddly elating. 

He relished in the warmth of her thighs against his legs as he knelt between them. He teased her nipples with his tongue in turn, which caused her to arch her back and moan.

Lucius drew back to his knees and promptly removed his shirt. She only had time to sit up and cover his chest with light kisses before her pushed her back down roughly. He looked at her, sprawled on the bed, looking almost identical to that image of her he’d had at Draco’s wedding: her cheeks were changing from a soft pink to a deep crimson and her breath came in short gasps. Holding himself, he leaned forward and slowly entered her. He remained still for a while, grabbing her wrists and holding them tightly above her head, which caused her back to arch and her breasts to offer themselves to his hungry lips.

Her eyes widened as he stretched her, and he looked deep inside their caramel pools, wishing to convey how blissful it felt to be finally inside her. He withdrew slightly, and then slid back in, unhurriedly. He did not feel like possessing her quickly and savagely (that could be done later); he wanted to savor her slowly and long. 

Her stockings-clad legs hooked themselves on the small of his back; he let go of her arms, and they immediately wrapped around his hips, pulling him yet closer, urging him deeper. 

“Lucius,” she sighed.

“Shhh...”

They peered into each other’s face, both curious, both amazed at how two former enemies fit so well. Every one of his thrusts caused gasps or sighs. Hermione closed her eyes and gave herself up completely. 

He claimed her mouth, and they kissed, tongued, licked throughout their languorous coupling until Hermione let out a ragged moan as she climaxed. He could barely keep his eyes open to watch her thrash under him as he savored the dawning of his own release. Not being able to hold himself any longer, he muffled a low desperate growl in the crook of her neck.

When Lucius came back to his senses, he rolled off her and lay on his side next to her. Hermione was still panting, and smiled tenderly at him. 

At last, for the first time in several years, he smiled, too. 

***

It had taken a long time for Lucius to admit to himself that he was a broken man. He could not remember the last time he had laughed (at least sincerely) or that anything or anyone had stirred any interest in him. Those long years had also taught him he was a weak, weak man. 

All his life, he had been so certain of his superiority and of the legitimacy of the beliefs his elders passed on to him, but one by one, those certainties had been dashed within the damp, oppressive walls of Azkaban. Not that his escape provided any sort of comfort. In fact, he had known from the moment he dropped the Prophecy that very little would help him anymore. For a while, he entertained irrational hopes of winning back his position in Voldemort’s circle by doing something, anything, but the daily humiliation and torture took care of those. When Tom Riddle took his wand, the strongest feeling it elicited was vague bewilderment at yet another blow. 

Except for moments of frantic anticipation during the search for Potter, Lucius drifted through the next years, not even enjoying the fact that he remained free, thanks to Narcissa’s quick thinking at Potter’s actual capture. He sat silent through the formality that was his hearing at the High Special Wizengamot. He barely sighed when his wife died. 

Now, as he took in the sight of Hermione sleeping peacefully beside him, her rosy breasts, her flat belly, her barely tried quim, he wondered why that little slip of a Mudblood should be the one to shake him out of that haze. 

Tilting his head, he considered the dusky pink buds of her breasts; leaning over, he took one of them between his lips, sucking lightly, then swirling his tongue around it. The young woman stirred in her sleep, let out a strange throaty sound, but did not wake. Leaning back to rest on his elbow, he sighed. What will she say when she does wake? Being magnanimous enough to attend his son’s wedding and the Hallowe’en ball was one thing, surrendering her body to him, the true miscreant of the Malfoy family, was another entirely. 

Nevertheless, he wished she would smile at him again, like she had before they fell asleep. It was a warm smile, an honest one. Maybe it was just gratitude for the pleasure he had dispensed. He turned his glance to her hair. The night before it had been magicked straighter and darker; now the only glamour remaining was stray braids. She looked so delicate, yet strangely earthy, much more so than any woman he had known. He remembered Narcissa’s flaxen tresses, or his youth’s folly, who had had sleek raven hair. 

Gathering Hermione closer to him, burying his face in her hair, he fell asleep again.


	4. Hermione away

A ray of sunlight beaming through imperfectly drawn curtains blinded her when she opened her eyes. For a few seconds, she struggled to remember where she was, but sitting up in the bed, she saw the cozy cottage room. She was alone, but the sheets next to her were still warm. She heard steps outside the half-open door. Lucius appeared, wearing only black wool trousers. He smiled uncertainly upon seeing her awake. 

“I did not wish to disturb you while I called for breakfast,” he said, looking at his hands. 

She nodded, as embarrassed as he. The strangeness of the situation, its… shocking quality hit her. She got up very quickly and retrieved the first piece of clothing she could find, which thankfully was her chemise. 

“This is not right; I should be gone,” she muttered as she found the rest of her garments and put them on. 

When she looked up at him again, an expression of profound sorrow had appeared on his features. He spoke, his voice flat and remote.

“Will you not eat?”

“Look, Lu… Mr. Malfoy.” She shook her head, trying to find something sensible to say. “Don’t you remember who I am? Who you are?” 

She was retrieving the pieces of her costume as she spoke, getting impatient, angry, even.

“How could I have been so… so….” 

She straightened up and looked at him again. He looked sad, resigned. 

“So foolish.” 

She sighed, then flinched. The night had been wondrous. Enlightening, no doubt. And she had definitely felt connected to that man. But it was dangerous. Very irresponsible. Out of character. What had that despicable man done to her? 

Lucius felt a blow when she had reverted to addressing him formally. Then the cold realization that she was going to be rational about their encounter lodged itself in his heart. 

“Of course. I understand your concern.” 

His features hardened. For one scary moment Hermione thought she saw shadows of his old self, and grew alarmed that she still had not retrieved her wand, but he remained still and silent. She looked around the room to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything, and when she turned back to the doorway, he was gone. Apprehensively, she stepped out of the room herself, and she saw he was standing, very straight, by the front door. Upon seeing her he bowed his head.

“I wonder if you prefer walking to the gate or if you trust me with Apparating us there. Wards make it impossible for… strangers to disapparate from the cottage or in its immediate vicinity.” 

His tone was flat and dreadfully formal. He carefully avoided looking at Hermione. 

“I hope you do not take it too much to heart, but I’d like to walk,” she said quietly. 

He nodded. 

“Follow me, then.”

They took a charming footpath bordered by woods on one side and by a stone wall on the other. Lucius led the way, walking rather slowly but with purpose; Hermione followed him, thinking about what a glum procession they made. She kept getting the impulse to touch him, to ask him to make love to her again. But her reason kept on stopping her hand. What could possibly be possessing me? Is it possible for something so strange to happen? He looks so sincere. Can he be?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the fact that Lucius had stopped walking, and they stood before what looked like a side entrance to the estate. On the other side of the gate was a larger road. 

“It is safe for you to Apparate home here.” 

She nodded. They both stood motionless and silent. As if in a dream, she saw his hand reaching out to take hers and lifting it to his lips. His grey eyes were full of regret. Without violence she withdrew her hand and turned away from him to Disapparate as quickly as she could. 

***

When she Apparated inside her small flat, Hermione looked around, bewildered. She felt an unfamiliar urge to grab the nearest object and throw it across the room. 

What she had done the night before could have been fatal: she had let herself be seduced by a man who had gone out of his way to get rid of people like her. What’s wrong with you, Granger? Lucius fucking Malfoy! 

Without thinking, she crossed her kitchen towards the bathroom removing her clothes and stepped into her shower. She scrubbed her face first and ran her hands through her hair, which seemed to calm her. What was there to be scared of? She was home safe, in one piece, and did not feel like she had been cursed in any way. She did not remember having drunk anything at the Masque. 

No, she would have to come to terms with the fact that she had willingly slept with Lucius Malfoy. 

***

He had expected Hermione to have qualms. But when she had given herself so completely, and so sweetly, he had hoped, foolishly, that she would forget everything else about the both of them. He had. But of course it could not be that simple. Would she even look at him again? 

For the next few days, Lucius barely showed himself at the Manor. He felt no hunger and very little thirst except for Firewhiskey. To the other occupants of the Manor, the change was imperceptible. The patriarch had only recently started to show up for meals at regular intervals so a little relapse did not seem so odd. 

However, after a whole week of only seeing his father’s shadow at the turn of a corridor, Draco felt something was really amiss. Although, being still uncomfortable talking about feelings with his father, he convinced his wife to try and get something out of Lucius. 

Learning from a house-elf that her father-in-law was sitting in the library, Astoria knocked very softly on the door; when she did not receive an answer, she knocked a little harder, wincing. Still no response. She exhaled sharply, squared her shoulders and opened the door. 

“Father?” she enquired, her voice quivering. “Father?” she tried, a little louder.

She frowned when she heard a deep sigh, but no other sound. She walked towards the elaborately carved chair facing the window where Guppy the elf had told her Lucius was sitting. Indeed, he was there, at least his physical self was. 

“Father,” she said again, very softly, putting a hand on his arm. 

Lucius started so violently Astoria shrieked and jumped back several steps. He looked at her, a wild look in his reddened eyes. Fortunately, it quickly disappeared, and Lucius composed his face in a more amenable expression. 

“Dear Astoria, pardon me. I’m afraid I was quite far away.”

He got up, took both her hands in his and kissed her forehead. The young woman was still trembling from the shock but remembered her purpose and regained her composure.

“Was there something you needed from me?” he asked. 

Astoria Summoned a chair near her father-in-law’s, and they both sat. 

“Draco and I… we haven’t seen much of you in several days. We are concerned.”

The young woman was no more used to talking about personal matters than her husband was. But she was prepared to do anything to make Draco, and his father, happy. 

“I see,” said Lucius. 

“We were wondering if there was anything we might do to…to make your sorrows lighter.” 

Lucius sighed. Of course, his constant brooding must have been a burden for the young couple. But how was he to broach a subject such as his raging need, his longing for a woman half his age, and a former sworn enemy, no less? The only way out was to lie. 

“I’m profoundly sorry, Astoria, for all the concern I’m causing. I can assure you I will regain my bearings very soon.”

Of course, it did not convince the young woman. She’d had an inkling of what might be wrong since the Hallowe’en ball, but had not told her husband. As Lucius was getting up and walking away, Astoria called to him.

“Does it have anything to do with Miss Granger?”

Her father-in-law stopped dead in his tracks. 

“I saw you dancing with her at the ball, and then you both disappeared,” she continued, blushing slightly. “Considering how you had enquired about her after our wedding…”

Lucius remained silent, his back to the young woman. A combination of shame and amusement at being discovered had got hold of him. 

“Draco made nothing of it, but I suppose us women are more observant about these kinds of considerations. She is an intelligent, attractive young woman, after all.”

Astoria was warming to her topic and Lucius let her continue, fascinated and strangely hopeful. 

“But I gather by your sad mood since then that she had misgivings. I suppose we cannot blame her.”

“No,” escaped his lips. 

He started again when he felt her small hand on his arm. Astoria looked up at him, wide-eyed. 

“I will not tell Draco this if you do not wish me to. But would you let me try and appeal to Miss Granger on your behalf?”

It was offered so sweetly and candidly, Lucius was almost tempted to accept, but it was out of the question. 

“I will sort this out myself, dear daughter. Tell Draco I will get better soon.”

Lucius bowed to her and walked away out of the library. 

Astoria did not believe him.

***

Astoria Malfoy, née Greengrass, had never set foot inside the Ministry of Magic. She had never had cause to. She had led a very sheltered life before marrying Draco and — apart from her school years at Hogwarts— had barely left her parent’s estate. London made her dizzy. She did not like crowds, but walked with purpose in the tortuous streets towards the Ministry. 

She had to ask a clerk for directions to Miss Granger’s office and hesitated for a few seconds before pushing the button in the elevator. Arriving on the right floor, the narrow hallway intimidated her even more, and it was lucky that Miss Granger’s office was not too far along it. 

The door was ajar, but Astoria dutifully knocked. A light voice beckoned her in. Hermione was bending over papers on her desk, but held a finger in the air, signifying to her guest to wait a moment. Astoria found it rather rude, but waited. 

“Yes?” said Hermione, finally looking up. The sight of her visitor puzzled her, then she blushed. “Oh! Mrs… Malfoy. May I help you?”

“Please call me Astoria,” she said, smiling benignly. “May I sit?” she added, designating a chair in front of Hermione’s desk. 

“Of course!” said the young witch hurriedly, levitating a pile of papers away from the chair. 

As Astoria sat down, Hermione continued to frown at her visitor. She had suspected what Astoria might want but was hoping to be wrong: it was simply too preposterous!

“You are a wise witch, Miss Granger. I suppose you have guessed my reason for being here?” said Astoria, as if reading her mind. 

“I have some suspicions, yes.”

Astoria nodded as if some grave matter had been settled. In fact, the young Mistress Malfoy had feared Miss Granger would deny everything or evade the subject. On the other hand, she knew Hermione to be an honorable woman. 

“What you might not have expected is for me to plead my father-in-law’s cause,” she said, laughing nervously. 

Biting her bottom lip, Hermione searched for a delicate, civil way to answer. The poor girl in front of her meant well, but frankly, there wasn’t much of a cause to plead. 

“I’ll admit I don’t know what to say, Mrs. M… Astoria. If I gave Mr. Malfoy any indication…”

“I’m sure you did not do anything to mislead him, Miss Granger. What I wish to make clear is that he did not wish to mislead you either.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. The young woman across her desk seemed quite certain of what she was saying, and Hermione wondered what proof she had, besides loyalty to her father-in-law. 

“Please call me Hermione. I do not know what he confided to you, Astoria, or what exactly brought you here, but we both know I have cause to doubt Mr. Malfoy’s sincerity.”

Astoria looked upset by Hermione’s answer and nodded once, very slowly. 

“Absolutely. However, you have seen him, seen what a shadow he is. Only after our wedding did he seem to regain some energy, but it was lost again after the Hallowe’en ball.”

Hermione felt it was quite rich coming from Lucius Malfoy’s daughter in law. Astoria was concerned about a grown man who, if given a chance, could have killed her once upon a time, but who was now pining after her, no less. Hermione cleared her throat and chose her words carefully.

“Astoria. I don’t know what your father-in-law has confided in you…”

“Nothing explicit, Miss… Hermione, I swear! He’s been dreadfully silent!” Astoria protested hurriedly.

“I’m sure. But what I wish to say is that I cannot explain what happened between Mr. Malfoy and me, only that it was a mistake and should not be repeated.” 

Astoria looked on the verge of tears. She tried very hard to compose herself, but was unused to arguing with anyone. She was at wit’s end. Hermione was truly sorry to cause such distress but Astoria’s meddling irritated her somehow. It seemed such a romantic, but foolish, thing to do. 

“I’m very sorry to be so cold, Astoria, but I’m afraid I cannot help you. I hope Mr. Malfoy can recover from any pain I might have caused him.” And I hope you can appreciate the irony of that.

Astoria heaved a heartrending sigh at hearing herself thus rebuked. She nodded once more and got up to leave. Before she opened the door, Astoria turned back to Hermione. 

“I don’t know if I’m imagining things, Miss Granger-- Hermione, but I feel Father is sincere. I wish I could have conveyed it to you more convincingly,” she said haltingly. “My husband sends his best wishes. Good day, Miss Granger.”


	5. Hermione in a Quandary

Hermione finished her day in a foul mood. Astoria Malfoy’s visit had rekindled her doubts. Doubts she was revolted to have in the first place. She should already have relegated her night with Lucius with all the other stupid things she had done in her life, like striking up a friendship with the Boy Who Lived, then erasing herself from her parents’ life because of it. 

But if helping Harry defeat the craziest, foulest wizard who had ever lived had brought her such sorrow, it also had given her such strength, such knowledge of human (and not-so-human) nature and its foibles that she would not exchange it for the quietest existence among Muggles. Having had sex with a former Death Eater, however, gave her pause to think? What rubbish was that? 

Oh, but it had been so wondrous. So unexpectedly comfortable and natural. And, yes Granger, admit it, every night since then, she had ached for more. 

That meek girl had to come and bring it all up again. With an exasperated groan, Hermione put down her quill, took her coat and bag and stormed out of her office. The cool air outside relieved the heat that had crept up her face. Somehow the gears in her head had been put in motion. What had Lucius Malfoy done to her? Why couldn’t she just forget him? If she had not studied so thoroughly the ins and outs of memory charms, she would have Obliviated herself right that minute, but it could not be that easy. Oh no. If there was a bright side to be found, however, it was in the almost comical way Astoria was interfering on her father-in-law’s behalf. She’d looked so utterly sincere. 

"I need a vacation", thought Hermione. 

***

Lucius wished he could shake himself out of that ridiculous mood. It had been too much to ask, really: what a fool he had been to imagine that that young woman would stay in his arms long enough for his wretchedness to leave him. Of course, she’d rather run, fast, in the other direction, from a man such as himself! 

He thought hard about their encounters in what he now called The Other Life. She had been but a child when they met first, and her eyes, sparkling with intelligence, had amused him. She was but a Mudblood little girl, but contrary to the Weasley brood, she was no fool, and that had to be commended. He was only furious when she soundly beat his son in every subject. How precious she would have been in Slytherin. 

When he had seen her next, at the Quidditch World Cup standing by Potter’s side, he had been startled by her budding beauty. He had conceived a kind of perverse pleasure in seeing her blush; if it had not been contrary to his upbringing, he would have made some lewd comment to demean her.

The Department of Mysteries raid had been such a whirlwind, and such a debacle, that he had barely seen her, if only to notice how fierce she looked for a girl her age.

The mere thought of her now aroused him. It was uncomfortable. And unacceptable. She had decided she did not want him, and he was a grown man. He would have to deal with it. 

But not quite yet. 

***

No one dared refuse her the two weeks’ vacation she asked for. From almost the day Voldemort had been killed, Hermione had worked tirelessly at rebuilding what he had destroyed. She suspected her unwavering work ethic was another factor that had pulled Ron and her apart. She loved to work; to make herself useful made her happy, while Ron, well, never met a couch he did not like. At first she found it endearing and routinely picked up after him, but when he started reproaching her constant activity, she did not take it kindly. 

In hindsight, she realized she had been a bit severe. All the same, she did not see herself spending her whole life with someone who did not understand her. 

Unfortunately, her finances did not allow her a trip abroad, so she booked a whole week in a little wizarding resort town on the coast, near Ramsgate. At that time of year, it was nearly deserted, so she could take long walks on the shore unbothered. 

At first, she dreamed of Lucius at night, woke up breathless from (erotic) nightmares and was irritable all day because of it. After four days of that regimen, she decided that was decidedly not what she had had in mind and took a sip of Dreamless Sleep potion before getting into bed. The next day, refreshed and serene, she set out to see the sights around the small town. 

When she came back from her day out, the innkeeper beamed at her from behind her desk.

“Something was delivered for you while you were out! I knew a pretty girl like you must have at least an admirer!”

Hermione rolled her eyes: when she had booked for one person, the lady had seemed to find it quite odd, and had been badgering Hermione with questions about her love life since she had set foot inside the inn. She was puzzled, however: only a handful of co-workers knew exactly where she was, so who could be sending her something? 

“It must be a secret admirer then, Mrs. Tattlebridge,” she said, walking towards the stairs up to the guest rooms.

“Ah, then, you should try to discover who the mysterious gentleman is, because he’s a catch! I put it on the table in your room, but you really can’t miss it!” 

Hermione tried to listen to the nosy lady as she climbed the stairs, but she was distracted. She was very curious too, but could not bring herself to be as enthusiastic as Mrs. Tattlebridge. 

It was indeed impossible to miss: on the pretty but rickety table was the most splendid bouquet Hermione thought she would ever see. Its fragrance filled the whole room. Forgetting her apprehension for a few seconds, she got closer to inspect the present. She recognized arums, gardenias; there were pink camellias, anemones, purple hyacinths… Small rosebuds magically burst open the moment one’s eye lingered on them, and vaporous, shimmering butterflies fluttered around. It was truly pretty, enchanting even, and Hermione could not help but beam. She saw the card among the flowers; before she had time to reach for it, one of the butterflies brought it up to her. 

“Miss Granger, 

Hermione, 

Could I ever be forgiven by you? 

L.M.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing the embossed silvery ink distractedly. 

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, throwing the card on the table. 

She rubbed her temples and lay down on the creaky bed. She had had to take a potion to get Lucius Malfoy out of her mind, and now, Merlin knew how, he had found her and sent her a charming, undeniably romantic present. 

Forgive him. Hermione did not even know what she should forgive him for. Together, they had no history. Really, they had been on opposite sides of something that could have killed them both. And both in their own way, they survived. In his case, as Hermione reminded herself, not because of his Slytherin cunning or talent for dissimulation, but because he loved his son. 

Hermione groaned and got up again. She prepared a Dreamless Sleep potion, drank it, changed into her pajamas and went to bed.

***

The next Monday

“Thank you all for being on time,” intoned Minister Shacklebolt at the twenty-odd wizards assembled in a boardroom just off the Atrium. “Welcome to the first meeting for the preparation of the Wizarding and Muggle Leaders summit of 2002. Most of you must be familiar with Mr. Percy Weasley, who will be General Overseer for the event; Mr. Declan Lochrin, General Head of security ; Miss Hermione Granger, Head Muggle Liaison agent ; Miss Parvati Patil, Head of Logistics and Muggle transportation ; and last but not least, Mr. Arsenius Switch, Head of Protocol and Event Coordination.” 

Each member of the main committee got up and bowed when their name was called, including a nervous Hermione. First, because it was indeed a very important assignment, and second…

“I would also like to welcome and thank our hosts for the event, the Malfoy family, who are represented today by Mr. Lucius Malfoy. They have graciously offered the buildings and grounds of their Wiltshire property for the Summit,” Mr. Shacklebolt went on amid coughs and quiet groans. “I understand from Mr. Weasley that the Malfoy compound is quite ideal security-wise, is it not, Percy?”

The former Weasley dissenter looked somehow sullen at having to admit it, but he concurred. 

"Yes, Minister. With the ... er ... co-operation and assistance of Mr. Malfoy, we were able to turn the latent and powerful ancestral wards already present at the Manor to the Ministry's advantage. My report shows that the adjustments to the levels are ... " His fumbling platitudes were halted abruptly by a wave of the Minister's hand. 

"Thank you, Weasley." The Minister stood and addressed the group, seemingly oblivious to the palpably uneasy atmosphere which had fallen on the meeting

“In the Ministry’s name, I would like to thank you again, Mister Malfoy, for this remarkable show of cooperation.”

Lucius, obviously in the same mood of denial as Minister Shacklebolt, simply nodded. At least, that’s how it seemed to most wizards present. But Hermione, who had shot occasional, furtive glances at him since coming into the room, saw he had the same gloomy air he’d had at his son’s wedding. She must have lingered on too long on his face because Hermione realized he was looking back at her. His expression softened and he risked a brief smile. She did not return it, of course. What would she look like, exchanging knowing smiles with Lucius Malfoy in the middle of a Ministry meeting! She realized she had lost track of what was happening when Minister Shacklebolt spoke her name.

“… isn’t it, Miss Granger?”

“Oh, er, yes, Minister. We are currently awaiting the Muggle Prime minister official announcement of his attendance, which is a formality, really. His office his holding a press conference this afternoon, and they have yet to name my counterpart. Miss Patil has a portkey ready for him or her already, I think?” 

Everyone in the room looked a bit puzzled: Hermione’s response clearly wasn’t congruent to what the Minister had asked, but it wasn’t too far off, either, because the latter broke the momentary silence with a question to another member of the committee, and all the eyes that had been on her now turned to the next target of the Minister’s attention. Hermione sighed in relief.

The meeting was soon over; several people stayed in the boardroom, chatting, but Hermione went straight back to her office. As she had feared, Lucius Malfoy was waiting by her door, looking just as majestic as in his former life, but his countenance and attire a lot less grandiose. He was dressed all in black, and the only ornament was a silver clasp in the form of a serpent on his cloak. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said before he saw her, “is there anything I can do for you?” 

It was disingenuous, but she hoped against hope that he was there on business. 

“Miss Granger, please,” he said, his expression pained. “May we speak privately?”

She sighed and opened her door, letting him in after her. He closed the door. 

“If you are here to…”

Hermione did not have time to finish: her back had still been to him and he had caught her in a tight embrace. She felt his breath on her ear. 

“Please, please, Hermione. Give me a chance.”

She extricated herself and swiftly walked behind her desk, to put as much distance between them as she could in her small office. 

“I wish I knew why you insist, Mr. Malfoy. We can’t do this.”

“Why?”

“You can’t ask me that, you know why!” she cried, indignant. “What happened at Hallowe’en was a mistake.”

“Why?” he repeated. “Would it really have happened if it was so unacceptable? We are both intelligent, discerning adults. I know who you are, you know who I am.”

“Do I?” she said. “The you I had known would want nothing to do with me,”

“Did I hurt you?” he interrupted, “Did I? I had every opportunity to. You slept in my bed!”

Hermione was at a loss. Of course, she could have argued that he might gain whatever it was he wished by seducing her, making her fall in love with him, and betray her. But she was tired. She had thought and thought about the situation, and the only constant was her longing to touch him again. 

She walked back up to him. The hope in his eyes was startling as she lifted her hand to cradle his cheek. 

“I’ll give you one chance, Lucius, one.”


	6. Chapter 6

He Apparated them at the cottage again. Hermione moved to look around the room, curious, but Lucius drew her close to him, and peered into her eyes intently. Hermione was first to reach for his lips with her own, tentatively brushing them at first, then, meeting no resistance, deepening the kiss. His tongue tickled the roof of her mouth, which caused her to giggle slightly. Breaking the kiss, she playfully bit his lower lip, which needled him on. 

Lucius promptly lifted her off her feet and carried her to the kitchen table, putting her down and placing himself between her legs. 

“I’m not in a gentle mood this time,” he said, his soft tone in stark contrast with his darkening gaze. 

“Good,” Hermione countered.

He chuckled, splaying his hands on her thighs and dragging her skirt up. She lifted herself so he could push her skirt out of the way, bunched at her waist. Grabbing her blouse’s lapels, he yanked them apart, ripping it open. Hermione held on to either side of the table, although tremblingly, while he put deceptively light kisses on both her breasts through the fabric of her bra. He then spelled it off. She yelped when he bit sharply on a nipple but immediately sucked on the sensitized skin. 

Hermione ran her tongue along his shoulder as he grazed the skin of her neck. She gasped again when he tore her knickers apart and off. Immediately, he busied his fingers at her core, tearing himself from her neck to study her reaction. 

Hermione was trying hard to stare back at him as he played with her, flicking, caressing. She found the strength to push his hand away.

“No. All of you, now” she breathed. 

He drew a sharp breath when he felt her hands on his crotch, her cool, small fingers undoing his belt and buttons and extracting him from the fabric confines. All restraint deserted him as she leaned back on the table and peered at him expectantly, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. Grabbing a harsh hold of her hips, he sheathed himself into her with one thrust. The table screeched along the flooring with every one of his savage drives. They would have laughed about it if they had been in a mood to notice. 

Lucius had never heard himself producing such guttural, animalistic grunts, and was startled by it. The refined, haughty Pureblood in him had died, to give birth to a rutting beast? How peculiar! 

Hermione had sat up and was holding on to his shoulders, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. 

“I pardon you, I pardon you,” she breathed as their eyes locked. 

Lucius felt as if a boulder had been removed from his chest. Even as he had been moving inside her, as she was holding him so tenderly, he had doubted. It could all have been a dream, or a mistake. Maybe she would leave again in the morning. But no, not now, not now she had pardoned him. 

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped, her breath coming in short pants. She throbbed around him for several seconds, her hips shuddering between his hands. Her wail of pleasure turned into laughter, and she showered her lover’s chest with kisses. Seeing such joy in her brought him so close, so close. 

“Yes, yes,” Hermione said soothingly, cupping his buttocks in her hands as he emptied himself into her in short, juddering thrusts. 

For a moment, Lucius felt wobbly and took a few seconds to recover, taking time to feel Hermione’s skin on his, her core dripping with his seed still around him. When he felt steadier on his legs, he lifted her up and carried them to the bedroom. 

**Six months later**

It had taken Lucius several months to convince Hermione to let him whisk her away. She could have chosen the little villa in the South of France (Hermione had doubts about the “little”), or the house in Marrakesh that looked like something out of the Thousand and One Nights (obviously). But she had preferred the smallest, most secluded one, in Madeira, the “Isle of flowers”. 

So there she was, hesitating on the threshold of the luxurious but cozy bedroom Lucius said was hers. He was outside, giving instructions to the housekeeper. 

Hermione had resisted for as long as she could to Lucius’ offer, but realized it made no sense, in the end. She had accepted the luxurious gifts of jewelry, antiques and— most appreciated— rare books, reluctantly at first, but with gradually less trepidation. For a reason she could still not pinpoint, she knew it was his own way of proving his love, something he did automatically, something ingrained in him. However, she had made him promise to give presents only on reasonable occasions, like Christmas or her birthday. Up until now, he had somewhat failed, judging by the presence, in a corner of the Madeiran room, of a beautiful lace nightgown on a wicker dress form. 

“It had your name on it, my dove. I could not resist,” purred Lucius in her ear, snaking his arms around her waist. 

Hermione sighed and smiled. 

“Did it? Perhaps I should have Aurors investigate that shop? The dress might be hexed!” she countered. 

“Hmm, before you alarm the Ministry, why not try it on? At the first sign of foul play, I’ll dutifully rip it off you.” 

“Ah, wouldn’t you love that,” Hermione sighed as he trailed her neck with kisses and teased her breasts through her blouse. 

“As a reprieved war criminal, I need to prove my sincerity by devoting myself to a Great War Heroine. Am I not devoted, my dove?” 

His hands were now hitching up her skirt, caressing her thighs; Hermione moaned and arched her back against him, against his hardness. 

“Very devoted… oh, yes,” she hissed as he slipped a hand inside her knickers.

Slipping his fingers into her slick folds, he observed her flushed face, her parted lips and her fluttering lashes. He loved Hermione’s company, enjoyed her conversation, but nothing made him happier than peering into her pleasure-altered face. Her eyes were not closed and her lips moved wordlessly. 

“Hermione,” Lucius said softly, just to say her name. He used his free hand to slide her underthings down her legs. 

“Yes?” she sighed.

“Let’s …”

He did not finish his sentence, but withdrew his hand from her wet core, eliciting a disappointed sigh, and swept her off her feet, carrying her to the bed. 

He gently laid her down and joined her side, but Hermione quickly threw her legs up and around his hips, and in a graceful blur straddled him. 

“Devotion is all well and good, but I’m not too keen on being treated like a little bird…”

She wriggled against his groin, then slid slightly down to undo his belt and trousers. 

“But you are my dove, yesss,” he hissed as he felt the cool air, and her warm hands, on him. 

Another couple of fluid moves only were needed for Hermione to impale herself on him. The shaky whimper she let out whenever he was finally sheathed into her always delighted him. It had a strange, quizzical quality, as if she wondered, like he did, if it was possible and real.

“Surely an innocent dove would not do this?” she sighed, trying to focus on her words while riding him, going slowly up, then slamming back down.

Lucius’ brain was too foggy to find an adequate answer.

“I don’t….” he stammered.

“Shhh…” Hermione said, bending down to put a shaky finger on his lips.

She picked up the pace, placing possessive hands on his chest as he gripped her hips. 

Soft light came through a gap in the heavy curtains, and for several minutes, the room echoed with their sighs and moans. Lucius always climaxed first when she rode him thus, to his great shame. But he found that view of her so entrancing that he never refused her taking control. He licked his thumb and applied it to her clit, rubbing very lightly in circles. For a short while, when she reached ecstasy, she seemed to be in her own world of sensations: her eyes were shut, her jaw slackened even though a smile seemed to be crawling up her face. Sometimes, she licked her lips so wantonly his hips bucked in short, belated thrusts. 

“Beautiful, beautiful, my dove,” he crooned. 

“Come,” Hermione said, falling back on her side, carefully avoiding letting him slip out of her. “I’ll let you rest a while, but you won’t sequester me here for the whole week,” she added, rubbing his sweaty temple, out of breath herself. 

“I promise nothing,” he said, yawning and then quickly falling asleep in her arms. 

***

Astoria Malfoy was sitting at her desk, going through her mail when her husband came into her boudoir: a rare occurrence. 

“Do you know where Father is?” Draco asked, his brow furrowed in a way which reminded Astoria of Malfoy père. 

“He’s… abroad. Don’t you remember, he told us at breakfast Wednesday last,” she said, apprehensive. For she knew where, and with whom her father-in-law was, and her husband did not. Yet. 

Due to an indiscretion, Astoria had discovered that Lucius had been able to conquer Miss Granger’s qualms and was pursuing an affair with the young woman for several months now. 

“Alone?” Draco queried, perceiving some evasiveness in his wife’s attitude. “Is there something I should know?” 

Astoria simpered comically.

“Not, he’s not alone, but your father made me swear I would not tell you. Please Draco, wait for him to come back from Madeira, he told me he would tell you then!”

“Madeira? He hasn’t been there in ages! He hates it!”

The young woman smiled. 

“Then you have an idea of the seriousness of his feelings for his mysterious lady!”

Draco pouted like a sullen child, which made Astoria laugh. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him sweetly. 

“Do I know her?” he asked, looking down in his wife’s eyes. 

“You won’t get anything out of me, Sir. Unless…” 

She drew him towards a day bed in the corner of the room.

“Unless you wish to torture me?” 

Draco shot Astoria a mock-threatening stare and followed, seizing her and flinging them both on the small bed. 

***

All along the trip back from Madeira in the spacious Thestral-drawn carriage, Lucius had paced nervously. 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Lucius, he’s a grown man. Although I’m sure he hasn’t been for very long,” Hermione teased. 

He quit his pacing and sat beside her, taking her hand and kissing it. 

“And what if he isn’t? What difference would it really make?” Lucius theorized. “I’m a grown man, too, and he certainly has no say in my decisions!” 

Lucius darkened, thinking how true and unfortunate this had been in the past. Hermione perceived his sudden preoccupation and put a hand on his cheek, seeking eye contact.

“I would not want you to quarrel with your son. If he… disapproves of us, we’ll have to find another way. We made it this long without Draco knowing anything!”

He kissed her hand again. 

“And what about you? Are you certain? Do you trust me, Hermione?”

Lucius very often asked her such questions. At first it encouraged her to question her feelings and determine if indeed she could trust him. They did not speak of the war, not even when Lucius woke up screaming from nightmares. He would only admit they were about “the past” and refuse to speak further. Hermione did not insist: she had a strange certainty that one day she would find a way to make him unburden his heart. 

He knew for certain that he would rather die than let anything or anyone hurt her. What a contrast to what they had been for the greater part of their lives! Lucius also knew she loved him, but he did not believe he deserved her, yet. He did not express those doubts to her, at least not very often, but it was a cloud that frequently hung above his head. 

They finally alighted in Malfoy Manor’s gardens. Lucius ordered, no, kindly asked Tiggy the house-elf to see that their luggage was transported his apartments.

They stood before the main entrance. Hermione took his arm, looked up and winked.

“Ready?”

***

Having been informed of their Father’s return by Tiggy, Draco and Astoria stood in the foyer; the young woman smiling confidently, and her husband pacing, looking a bit grumpy. He turned to the door when he heard its bolts creaking. He saw his father first, Lucius’s face neutral with a slight crease of his brow. Then he saw Hermione, wide-eyed but otherwise calm. 

“Father,” said Astoria, stepping forward to get her forehead kissed, as usual. “Welcome back.”

“I’ve been gone but a week, dear Astoria. I cannot have been missed much.”  
His daughter-in-law shot him a warning look, tempered with a smile. 

Draco was staring at Hermione, unsure of his reaction. What was he seeing? 

They all stood silent, uncertain of what to say. 

Astoria walked up to Hermione and kissed her on both cheeks, then embraced her at the waist, as she would a dear sister. It made Hermione a bit uncomfortable, but it also relieved her. 

“So, it’s you,” finally said Draco calmly. “I … you do remember who we are, don’t you?”

Lucius, relieved by his son’s measured reaction, felt he could lighten up the atmosphere and make an announcement at the same time. 

“That’s a strange question to ask your future stepmother, Draco.”

Astoria squealed excitedly and held a giggling Hermione even tighter. 

“What!” exclaimed Draco, a bit louder than they had expected. 

They all looked at him, the atmosphere growing thick with concern. 

“How long has this been going on? Why am I the last to know? Astoria?” he added, a petulant lilt in his voice. 

“Draco, calm yourself,” said Lucius firmly. “How can you react like this when you were the one who introduced Hermione in our house?”

Draco shook his head, then took a deep breath. Hearing his father call Hermione by her first name was a little shocking, to say nothing of the fact that he wanted to marry her. 

“I’m not… I don’t…” 

His eyes closed, he processed the situation and struggled to find the appropriate thing to say. He was not angry. He did not disapprove. It was just a bit much. 

“Draco, I really love your father, and have no intention of hurting him,” said Hermione quietly. 

The young man finally cracked a bittersweet smile. 

“Erm, it’s the opposite that I would fear, frankly.” 

They all smiled, relieved, but kept on looking at Draco expectantly. 

“Look, Granger, just as long as no Weasley is invited to the wedding!” 

“Draco!” chided Astoria. 

“It’s all right, Astoria,” Hermione said, untangling herself from the young woman and walking to her lover, who stood unsure of what to do next, and tenderly putting her arms around his waist. 

“Oh, what the hell,” said Draco. He walked up to Hermione and kissed her on both cheeks. 

“Welcome to the family, I guess. I told you you wouldn’t regret it.”


End file.
